


Favors

by orphan_account



Category: Sing (2016)
Genre: Asking Mike to do anything is pretty rough, Hope nobody minds I kinda make up a low-key history for him, This one was a challenge- I really had fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:51:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9466196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “I need you to help me with something.”He didn’t do deals, he didn’t do favors, he didn’t do pandering, and by god he didn’t do kosher. In his initial response, he had been vehement about this. The koala could do his own dirty work and if he needed someone to cater to the children then he could do it his damn self. Really, why would the guy even think to ask him?





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Mary Poppyns, who requested Mike and/or Buster helping Meena out. Decided to try to squeeze both options in there. I do hope you like it!

       “Hey Mike, can I talk to you for a moment?”

       The worst things in Mike’s life usually started that way, so if he came across as sharp in his retort, the koala could deal with it. It wouldn’t be until later, in the low lighting that filtered to the hollow space under the stage, that he would return to that conversation with a little less vinegar.

       “I need you to help me with something.”

       He didn’t do deals, he didn’t do favors, he didn’t do pandering, and by god he didn’t do kosher. In his initial response, he had been vehement about this. The koala could do his own dirty work and if he needed someone to cater to the children then he could do it his damn self. Really, why would the guy even think to ask him?

       The indignity of the situation still left him steaming.

       But it was a quiet steam, a gentle stew, a thing that just left him chewing quietly on the reed of his saxophone having long since abandoned actually attempting to play. He stared at the thin pools of light that fell to the floor in front of him and watched as dust drifted lazily across like small boats, letting his mind wander back to docks and wharfs and the heavy smell of salt.  

       “Could you please just…stay close to Meena? Show her how you do what you do on stage?”

       Meena might as well have been made of cellophane. For someone as tall as she was, she did a very good job of disappearing, and what in hell did ‘show her what you do on stage’ mean? Mike did a lot of things on stage and none of them, he felt, warranted explanation. You get up, you sing, you do a little dance maybe if you’re really feeling it, and then you’re off.

       It wasn’t hard.

       But then, he remembered, he had said the same thing to Harvey, and Harvey for the life of him couldn’t even manage to get in front of the class for a spelling bee without his knees knocking together and his stutter coming out in full strength. It didn’t matter how smart he was or how he aced every damn language test; Harvey was Harvey, and Harvey didn’t do people.

       Mike wondered where Harvey was now.

       With absentminded teeth he splintered his reed.

       “She could use some confidence Mike, and honestly, I think you’re the best to help.”

       Mike spat a curse along with chips of wood. Face screwed into a tight ball, he ran a thumb across his tongue to test for splinters as he remembered asking Sebastian how to play the saxophone. ‘It just happens,’ was all he got in response, but Mike learned it didn’t just happen. It took maybe an hour to get used to, yeah, but years to really feel the instrument as a living thing. Sebastian seemed to know though, know where to put his hands, and how to arch his back, and how to get the brass to sing exactly what it wanted to.

       It was magic watching that man play, the kind of magic that haunts.

       Mike sighed, his breath creating a riptide that cut through the beams of low light.

       As evening faded into dawn, music flitted through Mike’s head. Notes he hadn’t heard in years drifted in and out, played by a savant whose face he could not remember, but those hands, those hands. He’d shut his eyes for a moment and see them flitting across keys, and from the bell would pour forth dancing music fit to bring down the angels.

       Mike was quiet for most of that day, not speaking until he heard the gentle sound of cellophane footsteps behind him.

       “Hey Meena, can I talk to you for a moment?”           


End file.
